Peace, Love and Angst
by LeahxLeah
Summary: "People are stupid, John. You aren't. What that makes you, I don't know. But don't fool yourself into thinking that you are one of them—you're mine." Bits and drabbles surrounding Sherlock and John. SLASH, Pre-slash. Don't like, don't read.
1. You're Beautiful

Everyone has had a bad day. Doesn't matter who, what or where you are, some days you get home and you wonder why you even got out of bed in the first place. You think, "Why do I care anymore? What's my motivation to keep going, when in reality I'm just walking on a treadmill?"

For me, it wasn't just today. Or the day before. Not even the week before. It had been the whole goddamn month. And now, after a long, exhausting day of me hating myself more than usual, I finally did what Sherlock undoubtedly predicted—

I came home in tears.

No, I didn't cry on the way to the flat. I wasn't some snivelling wreck trekking across the streets of London; quite the opposite, in fact. I stuck up my chin, walked with stiff shoulders and marched, a soldier to the core.

It was when I reached the flat that I crumbled. I entered, quivering with all the bottled emotions trying to leak out. Hung up my coat. Shook. Took off my shoes. Shook.

"Ah, John! Did you happen to pick up some—"

Turned my back. Shook. Tried to walk into the kitchen. Shook.

"John?"

Ignored Sherlock; shook; felt like I was being ripped I half; shook; let tears drip down my face, shaking and shaking and shaking and—

I made it to the refrigerator, then giving up in defeat, slamming my back against its firm exterior. I've heard before that it's considered manly to cry, to have the strength to admit your feelings. I don't feel like a man, though, more like a once magnificent beast slain by a delicate creature.

I fold my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. Everything's still, and the world around me is perceived through the veil of tears; colours melting and swirling together like they've been left out in the rain.

"John?"

A Sherlock-shaped outline, leaning against the table.

I tip my head up just enough to say, "Go away," like I've hit puberty all over again.

Sherlock is silent, and then he peeps out with a quiet, "No."

"Why not?" I ask, feeling angry at him suddenly. "Am I in your way? Sorry, the second I'm having a break-down in the kitchen you decide you're a bit peckish?"

Sherlock tips his head slightly to the side, the fluorescent light catching on the edges of his strong jawbones.

"I'm here because I am concerned. I feel you are drastically overreacting to the amputated tongues in the fridge."

"No, Sherlock, no. I'm sad. People cry when they're sad. All I'm doing is being human."

"If I had known you would've had this reaction, I wouldn't have—"

"This isn't about tongues!"

A pause.

"Would you like to tell me what it is about, then?"

"People. Society. The whole damn world."

"Understandable."

"It's just…this girl. At work."

"Sarah?"

"Sarah dumped me last week. I figured it was time to stop moping—I don't exactly have all the time in the world. So I talked to this other girl."

"Named?"

"Trillium."

"I find it very unfortunate for her sake that her parents were heavy drug users in the era she was born."

"Heh. Nonetheless, all she did was remind me of how I'm unattractive, short and boring."

"John—"

"Don't pull the, 'You're perfect the way you are' crap, Sherlock."

"I won't."

"Oh. Really? You won't?"

"Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Well, you aren't perfect. I wouldn't deceive you to make you feel better."

I frowned at him. He continued: "I fail to see why you are upset. Frequently people call me 'gangly, hideous and a freak'."

"Doesn't it bug you?"

"No."

"Did it ever?"

"Yes."

"Really? Why'd it change?"

"I met you."

"Me?"

"Correct. If I was a gangly, hideous freak then why would someone like you spend their time with me?"

"Wait, wait. So you're saying I wouldn't have you in my life is I was unattractive, short and boring?"

He shrugged. "Looks don't matter to me—even though you don't lack in that department—although I couldn't stand you if you were dull."

"Hold on a sec—did you just compliment me? In some weird, twisted way?"

"I don't fit into your, 'real world', John. Everything in it exhausts and bores me—and yet, somehow, I live with you. If you were unattractive or boring, do you really think that would work?"

"What about the short bit?"

"…"

"Sherlock?"

"I said I wouldn't lie to you, John."

"But, Trillium—"

"Should you really be taking the word of a girl named Trillium?"

"Still, Sherlock."

"Still what?"

"I don't…I don't want to die alone."

"You won't."

"I was referring to love—"

"As was I. I 'love' you."

An awkward pause filled the room.

"I, uh, love you too, but um…"

"Relax. I simply mean that I care about your wellbeing. Technically, we have all the aspects of marriage and love in our friendship, right now."

"Umm…"

"Minus the sex, of course."

"So, you're saying… that you love me and want to spend the rest our lives together?"

"I never said THAT. You make me sound like I came from a vampire romance novel."

"Thanks, Sherlock. Thank you."

"People are stupid, John. You aren't. What that makes you, I don't know. But don't fool yourself into thinking that you are one of them—you're mine."

OoOoO

**Meh… this is what happens when my own insecurities overlap with a man like Benedict Cumberbatch; pep talks in front of the fridge. First sort-of chapter. Not really funny or anything, but made me feel much better about myself.**


	2. Body Icing

Sherlock never really "clicked" with the whole idea surrounding sex. He got confused with the positions, the people, the toys and the genders. At first, it was no big deal. When we had a case that pertained to the aforementioned topic, I would simply fill in the details that he lacked. We frequently work like that, he and I; with me filling in the particulars involving society and him putting it all together in his flashes of genius.

Until the day came when the owner of a lingerie shop was murdered.

"This was a really, really bad idea," I whisper angrily to Lestrade as Sherlock twirls around the racks of colourfully assorted bras, poking at the microscopic, lacy underwear with slight intrigue on his face.

Lestrade shrugs. "I think it's time I let the baby bird leave the nest," he replies in his hoarse undertone of a voice.

"By taking him to a store entirely about sex?"

"It's for women, John. I highly doubt he's going to try anything on."

I shuddered at the image. "He knows nothing about it, except what I explained to him. Even that I didn't cover too well."

Lestrade chuckled at my expense. "Let me guess, 'Sherlock, when your mom met your dad…'or was it more like, 'when a boy meets a girl, or a girl meets a girl, or a boy meets a boy…'"

I scowled. "Just the basics."

"Did you put a condom on a banana? That'll be a new reason for him to never pick up a piece of fruit again."

"Actually, it was a cucumber."

"Bet it made watching 'Vegetales' all that more difficult."

"I hate to break it to you, Lestrade, but Sherlock's about thirty years older than you estimate him to be."

The body lay in the perfumes and lotions section of the store, the stands that held the products having toppled over onto it. Several of the bottles had exploded under the pressure, leaving the victim herself covered in the variety of products she sold. Heavy aromas drifted through the air—all of them at one point sensual or at least fairly nice in scent, now combined in a stench that mixed with corpse. The gluttonous materials were of all colours, thickness and volumes, making the cadaver a rainbow blob lying splayed on the floor.

Sherlock clapped his hands together in an excited motion, the tips of his fingers brushing his upper lip, a smirk playing across his face.

"In order to actually see the victim and distinguish which products were poured on the body before the rack fell, it's important we identify which ones came from there."

He strode over to an identical shelf on the other side of the body, passing me bottles to match the substances, along with Lestrade, too.

With cotton swabs and latex gloves we prodded, opening each container.

"Alright, I have 'Almond Body Butter' here," Lestrade called.

"Coconut shampoo on her foot," I responded.

Sherlock looked perplexed. "The ingredient on the victim's hair is called 'Body Icing'. What exactly is the purpose of this product?"

Lestrade and I exchanged awkward glances. "Umm, why don't you read the bottle?" I asked, trying not to let the blush creeping up my neck show.

Sherlock picked up the container, appearing to examine it. Never being one to follow a simple set of directions, however, instead of actually reading it, he cracked open the lid and plunged his hand in. It remerged two seconds later, completely coated in brown.

"I thought lotions typically were clear or white, so as to be absorbed into the skin. This does not appear to be absorbing."

"Sherlock! What did I say? Read the bottle, not go and shove your whole hand in as far as it will go!" I screeched.

"I highly doubt I will have an allergic reaction," he responded coolly.

"No," Lestrade laughed, "I don't quite think that's what he's worried about."

I yanked the bottle from Sherlock's hand in one swift movement, reading out the paper attached to it.

"Edible Body Icing—Chocolate. Paint your own creative designs on your lover's body in this delicious alternative to paint. Always make sure to lick off what you put on."

Sherlock looked horrified, his gaze flicking between the bottle in my hands and the substance covering his right hand.

Meanwhile, Lestrade was killing himself laughing. "You get it? It's funny, because his right hand _is_ his lover! Ha!"

Sherlock glared at him with all the venom he could possibly muster into one look. Then his expression switched back to disgust. When later asked about the topic, Sherlock always replied with: "Sex is for highly-primitive people who like to paint themselves different colours."

He'll never quite get it.

OoOoO

**Shout out goes to Elvendork-Infinity who was the first to review on the last chapter and to pick out the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy reference. Martin Freeman was adorable in the movie—and no, I promise I'm not hating on Trillian. **

**Can anyone catch the TV show I referenced in this one? You might just win yourself any fic your heart could desire about our boys, penned by me. **

**That is, if you actually want it :D**


	3. Remind Me How To Breathe

I've always been repulsed by normality. Normal people breathe, normal people eat, and normal people die. They lust after one another, inhale toxins to speed up the process of life, wear clothes, drink bitter liquids to the point of intoxication and never tire of it. These people are so different from me—because I'm not normal.

At first, they would try to 'fix' me—fill me with pills and medicines to cool and ease the darkness that lay buried beneath my skin.

"Dull." I like being someone that's not them.

So I forget to eat, breathe, sleep, lust, intoxicate, dress and die. I delete all the files that were pre-loaded into my circuitry, change my first nature into thinking, instead. So, at the very least, I become a 'genius'. But time passes, and the words that used to function as my own, twisted form of oxygen shrivel and wither, and I'm left breathless. The cases, the 'adventures' as you call them, leave me high above the city and then evaporate. Ten, no, a hundred times worse than withdrawal, to the point where I'm writhing in agony on the floor, soaking in the average world.

You'll never really be able to understand, John, how much it hurts.

But then I see you going out with her, the third time this month. She's plain, with about as much uniqueness as the colour beige. Yet you see her, and every time she calls you in to work, you spend the day taping up split lips and applying plasters. You hate it, but for her, you would do it. Because while you adore the thrill of the dark side of London that I represent, you can only love what's normal.

Pathetic, as you are the only person I've ever wanted to love me. And I'm not normal.

So it hurts when I see your back retreat through the door frame, off on a common date with a typical girl.

I turn to the skull, then, and say: "Remind me how to breathe again?"

OoOoO

**Kind of a so-so little perspective from Sherlock. Congratulations to ariacle, who one last week's media reference. You now have my personal enslavement to request whatever you like as a Sherlock fic, so long as it's not above the T rating. Eventually I'll be able to go beyond that, but I'm still building our boys brick by brick. **


	4. Carry Me To Bed?

Most of the times I enjoy London. Even after I returned from combat, even when I barely could live in military lodgings, or afford to eat. It's home. Simple as that.

Yet I could never adjust to the bitter, grey city winters. No snow would fall from the sky, but the air itself would frost over and mark your breath as it left your mouth. Black ice mirrored the tone and textures of the road, and not every street could be coated in the strong, industrial salt. More specifically, the alleys and lanes Sherlock tended to frequent.

I'm not the first man to wipe out on an icy thoroughfare or have to survive the frozen exterior of a city that long ago gouged its way onto the map through wars and battles. Not the first to ungracefully slip and sprain my ankle, or to make a fool of myself in front of the shadier crowd in a dark alley. Evidently, I was the first Sherlock had to deal with.

His reaction? The hardest I've ever seen him laugh.

"You," he gasped for breath, "fell, on your ass, in front of …the most violent …drug dealer in London!"

I sent him a glare from my currently seated position in the aforementioned alley. "Laugh while you can, but I can't move my ankle. It's sprained, you idiot, and no taxi will pick us up here. You're going to have to carry me."

He collapsed against one of the walls, shaking in laughter. "And then you… landed on your…gun, and—" He howled in appreciation.

Long story short, I accidentally shot him in his manhood. Now both the drug dealer and I were suffering on the ground, and Sherlock looked like he thought this was the most comedic situation he'd ever thought could occur had just happened.

"Call an ambulance!" rasped the drug dealer. Sherlock paused from his fit, sent the drug dealer a look that said _ruin this perfectly comical moment for me and die_, then returned to his tirade.

"You made this sound, too, it was like a 'oomph!' and then he was like, 'holymother—'"

"We don't need a play-by-play, Sherlock!"

He rose to his feet, still shaking violently, then quickly dialled the police and reported hearing a man in pain in the passage. He turned to the figure squirming in agony and said, "I think it's best for both our sakes if you were shot by a homeless man, agreed?"

The drug dealer nodded.

"John?" he asked, extending his hand, grinning from ear to ear and his chest still vibrating. I grabbed for it, one leg buckling in pain beneath me. Sherlock instantly grabbed for my forearm, heaving me against him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, determined not to fall, despite the odds against me. I heaved out a small cloud behind his neck, hoping he didn't realise that in actuality it was a sigh of content. His long, lean body wrapped around mine, the soft scent of wool mixed with the subtleness of leather, and something entirely Sherlock. He panted slightly too, and a warm smile still engulfed half of his face, amusement thick in his eyes.

There isn't a dark moment in the entire universe that can't be lit up by a smile like that.

"This is going to be painful." He assured me, still the most positive I've ever seen the sociopath.

"For who?" I ask, only now realising how close my face is to his, and how I have to tilt my head up to see him and he has to tilt his down. We're close enough to feel the heat of each other's breath coming off in waves against our faces. I grin back, lost in those soul-consuming eyes.

"Both of us. I think I will have to carry you on my back until we can reach the main road." He paused, confused and still thrilled, like a puppy muddled by the signals it was receiving.

"Well, then, sorry I had those extra biscuits at lunch."

"Yes, you are likely very heavy. Which is why it makes no sense why I am smiling. You are too, which also makes no sense, because you are in pain. Why is that, John?"

"Well, we giggle at crime scenes, enjoy running around London at odd hours of the day, embarrass ourselves in public… I always just figured we were a bunch of masochists."

Sherlock, in one swift movement, swung me onto his back and I wrapped my legs around his hips. Surprisingly muscular hips, I might add.

"We can't both be masochists, otherwise our relationship wouldn't work. At least one of us has to be a sadist."

"What, so we're like—no, scratch that."

"Why?"

"If anyone from the Yard heard us having this conversation, they'd assume we're shagging."

"They already do…?"

"Yeah, but shagging a bit past vanilla."

"Oh."

'Yeah."

"Probably doesn't help that I'm carrying you around on my back, either."

"Yup, that most definitely worsens the image."

OoOoO

You can imagine the look on Mrs. Hudson's face when we got in.

"He sprained his ankle." Sherlock tried.

She still looked mortified.

"And shot a drug dealer!" I piped in.

Mortified switched to flabbergasted.

"We couldn't hail a taxi," Sherlock attempted again.

"Or hitch hike, because Sherlock's permanently under the impression I'm going to get taken by a serial killer."

"You're 5 foot 6, petit, and blonde. It's a reasonable assumption."

"Boys!" she interrupted, sharply, colour returning to her cheeks. "Are you trying to tell me that you walked around like that, all the way home, with an injury?"

I paused. "That's about the gist of it."

"Sherlock, you get poor little John off your back right now. I'm sure he's terrified by the height."

I opened my mouth to protest, but thought better off it.

Sherlock swung me off his back, placing me very gently on the floor, as though I was his skull and not me.

"Now, young man, carry him up to bed."

"How?" he asked, amused with my death glare I was sending towards him.

"Any way except on your back. I'd hate to see you pull a muscle."

She trotted towards her flat, calling back: "I'll go get you an ice-pack, dearie."

Sherlock smirked at me. "Honey-moon style?"

"Oh God, no." I said. _Oh God, yes,_ I thought.

He shrugged, still looking pleased with himself, then wrapping an arm under my arm pit. I looped an arm over his neck; he grabbed my injured leg and pulled it up to a right angle. Then, ungracefully and uncoordinated, I hopped.

One, two, three, three, (slipped back onto Sherlock), four,four, five, six…seven…eight (nine seems really far away-)

"—oh, sod it, carrying me honey moon style."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You know, when I met you, I never thought you'd be asking me to carry you to bed."

"Oh, shut up."

OoOoO

**Yeah, Sherlock OOC. Other than that, not too bad given I'm writing this on a sick day. **

**The button below—with the blue words—wants you to click it. You see it? Cliiick it. **


	5. A Perfectly Ordinary Love Letter

Dear Sherlock Holmes,

You will never read this letter. It is petty, and above your high class tongue and standards. But, then again, likely every love letter ever written for you is. This one is no different, penned by a middle-class doctor who has no particular outstanding quality except for a somewhat misplaced affection for you.

You aren't easy to be around—often, you blow up half the flat, leave actually hazardous materials and messes, and then lie about on the sofa like a wilted flower for days on end. But you know this. Here's what you don't know: I am hypnotized by your translucent, alien eyes. They are the gateway, the portal to your brilliant mind that is as cold and metallic as the most cutting edge machinery. With such a weapon, such a heated smoulder within you, it doesn't make sense that I should notice your lips first. Soft, delicate petals of skin wrapping around the dead, acidic words that you spill, so innocent in their width. You purse them when you think, and when you're trying to restrain the anger seeping through you. These beautiful, heavenly features sometimes twist themselves into a smile, acting as though they'd forgotten how to.

Cheekbones that sculpt out your face until the shadows left over make you look like a Roman statue, marble cold in your dusky grace. Curls attack that insipid skin, the colour of dark chocolate and just as bittersweet, a lost virtue darkened by the world that's eclipsed you. Don't let me start about your body—the most absolutely sinful creation ever crafted by those long, pale spiderlike hands.

Everything about you is icy, frosted over by jealous letters forming hurtful words. Even your flesh is almost white, as though the warmth of the sun is afraid to touch you. Naturally, when I brushed up against you, I thought you would be as I previously described—frozen. Naturally, I was wrong.

You were blistering, a source of fire lit by genius and wrapped in dramatic suits and coats. You were brighter than any light, obliterating the black spaces left in the world. And I was but a moth.

I'm not the first to want to lose myself in that inferno where organs should be, and I won't be the last. If anything, I'm the most plain, compared to all the others. But I'll love you the most, out of them. I'll love you like an addict loves his drug—I'll curl up within myself when you leave me, and stretch out in bliss when we're close. Also unlike the rest of the world, I'm not afraid of you. I'll chase you and your insane life through the gloomiest streets of London, and I won't stop. Ever. Even when my lungs refuse to take in air, my heart refuses to beat and my legs give out. I'm going to follow you to the end of the Earth.

Despite the fact you'll never, ever feel the same way. I'll keep going.

Love (in the least platonic way),

John H Watson.

OoOoO

**John's turn for angst and obsession! Relax, fluff lovers, I will appease your needs when the time comes. Build up first, as always. Thoughts, opinions? **


	6. How To Wreck A Date

From the day I moved in with Sherlock, I have not gone on a single date he hasn't tried to wreck. And when I say wreck, what I really mean is smash, demolish, rip into a million pieces and stamp on. His methods are varied and wide, from poisoning the food to acting to getting a homeless man to lie in a pool of 'blood' in front of the restaurant we were supposed to eat at.

He is jealous, clingy and entirely adorable. I would pretend that it was for the sake of love or lust, but part if not all of me knows it can't be true.

Date One:

Sherlock limps into the restaurant, covered in blood, his coat torn. The mysterious red liquid ran down his face, his hands and his exposed neck. He looks around blindly, then stumbles closer to our table. 'Oh my God!" Rebecca exclaims, just as Sherlock spots me, limping as fast as he can towards the table.

He collapses in front of us.

"John…" he mutters in a croak of a voice.

"Yes, Sherlock?" I ask the crumpled figure on the floor.

"You know him?" Rebecca exclaims. "Can't you revive him?"

"John… you were my only friend…"

"There's a reason for that," I snarl.

"My only friend… in such a cold, lonely world…" He coughs, more of the red liquid seeping out of his chest.

"If I mattered so much to you, you wouldn't die in front of my date."

I saw a smile twitch on his lips.

"If I could spend an eternity with anyone, it would be you."

"There aren't too many volunteers from the audience for that position."

"But, alas, I have only one life to give to you."

"I've only known you for a year!"

"…but think of the times we've had in that year! Chasing down criminals, solving crimes, playing tag when we were waiting for the tube…"

"Oh, yeah," I continue. "You shooting our wall, sticking body parts in the fridge, and just last week when you dissected a cat on the kitchen table that you found lying flat in the middle of the road."

"Stop, John," Sherlock said emotionally, "You're making my eyes get all misty!"

"How can I live without you?" I asked flatly.

He reached, (insert fake groan here), and gently placed his hand on my leg.

"Day by day," he said.

"I don't know," I said, sarcasm filling my voice, "it sounds so desolate, a life without you."

Sherlock nodded, 'tears' running down his face. "I'll understand if you feel the need to kill yourself to be with me."

Rebecca left.

Date Two:

Ten corpses had been propped up in the other seats in the theatre. I'm sure it comes as no surprise that when the lights came up, Sherlock was sitting in the seat Charlene should've been.

Date Three:

The movie screen was covered in blood.

Date Four:

Several goats had been let loose in the park, and were insistent upon eating Andrea's clothes.

Date Five:

Probably the worst out of all of them. I was actually enjoying this one—Alyssa had been to Africa and Asia on a 'Doctor's Without Borders' type of program, thus making her conversation fascinating. Her skin was a perfect tone of snow white, her eyes an alarming grey-blue, and dark curls framed her high cheekbones.

Remind you of anyone?

Evidently, Sherlock agreed, because he showed up at the dinner table, looking quite…miffed. At first, Alyssa ignored the imposing figure, but eventually looked up at him.

"Can I help you?" She asked, polite.

"Yes," he responded curtly.

"Sherlock—" I hissed, but was cut off.

"And what, exactly, can I help you with?" she asked, smiling slightly.

"You could give him back."

"Sorry, who?" she asked, her smile growing.

"John!" he growled in a low, threatening tone. "You can give back John, _my_ John."

I buried my face in my hands, barely managing to pretend I didn't enjoy the attention.

"Well, I can hardly give him back unless you show me your ownership papers. Otherwise, how would I know he's rightfully yours?" She grinned now, loving provoking him.

"Left them at home," he sneered.

"Then why don't we both call him, see which one of us he comes to?"

The banter continued for another half an hour before I permanently excused myself to the bathroom.

OoOoO

**Fluff=reviews. This is fluff. Therefore, reviews. Don't you love philosophy?**

**Any suggestions would be welcome **


	7. Hitch Hiking

**Today, I have an intro instead of an extro. Which I spelt wrong. Oh well. **

**Written on my phone, originally, and half dictated by my amigo Paul (with an identical personality to Lestrade) who has such an anonymous name I can put him online. **

OoOoO

"You are probably the most stupid person I know!" I growl at Sherlock.

"Considering your friends, that is quite an alarming statement."

"Sod off about my mates. At least I have some!"

"I have you, and sort of Lestrade."

"Lestrade is just your boss that you happen to shove your daddy issues on to."

"Not true!"

I shot him a look, getting only a dark glare in return, shaded by his curls.

"What? That you have daddy issues?"

"No, that Lestrade's my boss."

I chuckled dryly, kicking at the dried mud caking the side of the road, taking a few tufts of grass with it.

"Our entire plight should be a statement to London's cab service," Sherlock said arrogantly, tipping up his pale face up to the sun, closing his eyes.

"One cab broke down and you make us sound like martyrs, Sherlock. We'll just have to call another one."

"Does your phone get service?"

I pulled it out of my pocket, holding it up in the same direction as his face.

"Nope, but I don't have a super-fancy model like you."

"The fact that it's better than yours doesn't dictate whether or not it gets service."

"Well, then. We'll just walk for a bit."

"All the way back to London?"

We'd been in the cab for about an hour, heading out to Mycroft's 'Manor' (house with a couple ponies) as he'd claimed to have found something of Sherlock's he didn't want to deliver in person or mail. I wasn't filled in with any more details, and only went so Mycroft couldn't keep him longer than needed.

"Then we'll… hitch hike."

Sherlock visibly shuddered, then looked at me in absolute horror.

"There's no way I'm letting you, of all people, get in a car with a stranger."

"You'd be there, too!"

"Not worth risking."

"So—you'll let me get shot at, strapped to bombs and jump off roof tops, but not hitch hike?"

"Precisely. I have previously explained on many occasions how you are a stereotypical victim for a serial killer."

"Except the fact I'm thirty five and entirely male."

"I'm sure some people—"

"Who, Sherlock? Who can you think of, off the top of your head?"

"…"

"Oh, keep going, I'm sure the list is quite lengthily."

"Mycroft, Moriarty—"

"Want to abduct and molest me?"

"Well, you never said _that_. These new factors significantly narrow the pool of suspects."

"There's still a pool of suspects?"

"Oh, yes."

"How many?"

"Just one."

"Who, exactly?"

"Me."


	8. The Words Left Unspoken

Typically, I'm not prone to being fond of the outdoors, and tonight is no exception. After having trudged for three hours towards London still without the faintest of bars of signals on our phones, darkness had fallen. A phrase which doesn't make any logical sense, because even poetically speaking, it always seemed to me that darkness encroached from the corners of the sky until it finally obscured the last ray of light.

Wet grass pressing against my back probably wasn't the most comfortable of positions to be situated in, but lying next to John was. It wasn't a particularly intimate scene, with my shoulder brushing against his temple, but no other body part connected.

John let out a sigh so small and content that I wouldn't have heard it if not for our proximity, which I interpret is from the wide expanse of distant burning balls of hydrogen. I don't tell him this, though. He seems happier thinking of them as orbs of light far away designed specifically for lighting up the field that we're lying in, rather than just products of simple science.

"I like the stars," he murmurs, his warm exhale carrying words on the faintest image of fog. "They make me feel safe, and small."

I smirk into the barely lit space between us. "That has nothing to do with stars, John."

While a simple glare would have sufficed, he underlined his look even more with a sharp elbow to my ribcage.

"You're just jealous."

"Of your height?"

"No. Of the fact I know nothing I'll ever do will have any significance on the universe."

"And it will for me?"

"You're Sherlock Holmes. I have a feeling that throughout your life, you'll make such an impact that even once you're gone, they'll somehow find a way to reincarnate you again and again until the end of time."

" 'They' better bring you me."

"Why? I'm normal, and you're extraordinary."

"My worthiness matters only in your eyes."

John turned to me, confusion painted on his small face, the wet grass gelling his hair in different angles, the only light available glistening on his face.

"Me? I—"

"John, if I had it my way, you'd be the only person on the planet with eyes."

He choked out a noise resembling a laugh, then pressing his cheek more firmly against my shoulder, sliding it down along my arm.

Logically, I know that the tingling I am experiencing in my arm that is radiating through my body like a potent poison is a physical reaction directly related to attraction, but…he's so warm. The only source of heat in an arctic world, a shade of neon in a domain of black and white. There isn't a breathing creature that's ever existed who deserves him—not Sarah, not Rebecca, not Alyssa—not me.

Unlike them, however, I refuse to let a spark in the vastness of existence fade. I'm not noble, not heroic; for all intents and purposes, I have the sole goal to keep him like a rose in a glass. I'm less than human, in that sense, because I can't set what I love most free. He won't come back, if I do, because no one would.

So I clasp over him, chain him to me, because I am petty and below morals. I've never loved another human being before, besides Mother, and what with my standards, I fell for the only one on the planet worth loving. I'm not beyond 'animal' feelings and rudimentary sensations. Not since I met him.

"You really know how to improve a bloke's confidence, know that?" He shifted his face directly onto my arm and flicked his gaze to my face briefly and then back to the wide expanse of a sky.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"You're snuggling."

"Yes. It's four degrees out, wet, and us masterminds are taking a role in a field. I figure I get a 'Get Out of Jail Free Card' on this particular night."

_No, you don't get it! You don't—_

"I simply find this confusing due to the fact you typically only let me put my feet on your lap in terms of displaying physical affection—"

"Putting your feet on my lap is physical affection? What's your idea of sex, exactly?"

"—so I was under the impression you were uncomfortable with me due to social niceties."

"Society isn't exactly watching, is it?"

"No one's watching, so you feel comfortable without anyone making implications?"

"Definitely. I could kiss you right now and wouldn't worry about it in the slightest tomorrow."

My heart seizes and my breathing alters slightly, but I manage to spit out: "I don't believe you."

Provoke him, lead him…

"Fine. I'll prove it."

I angle my face down to him; the ruffled blonde hair and blue-brown eyes reflecting the emotions in mine that were beyond being described by words. The scent of rain and grass is leeched into his clothes, which isn't as preferable as tea and London air, but still very John.

His lips suddenly look soft and tender, like at any moment they could part and whisper words that would haunt me long after they'd been spoken. The lines on his face are landmarks of where tears have run and smiles have been imprinted, and I want to make more.

I close my eyes as he presses those lips to my cheek, and lose myself in the thoughtless feeling of electricity coursing through me at speeds rapid enough to tear up the soil and ground beneath it.

_I love you, John Watson._

_I love you too, Sherlock Holmes. _

OoOoO

**This is me teasing you by alluding to slash! Love it? Hate it? Take it off the site it's so terrible if I even think of it I'll be sick? **

**Also, I've started a poll on my profile asking, "If you could go on a date with a Sherlock character, who would it be?" Thought you guys might enjoy that, and, if you wouldn't mind, I'd also like to know why. Donovan and Anthea are also up on the list, in case they're your thing. And Anderson. **_**Always **_**Anderson.**


	9. Lestrade's Scarf

Sometimes—well, most of the time—Sherlock notices things he shouldn't. Little things, big things, but all together things that mattered to people in some way shape or form. And, given his personality, he tended to broadcast them. Loudly.

For example: "I'm sorry Sarah didn't put out tonight, John."

And: "Anderson just found out his mother has been sleeping with his best friend for three years."

Also: "Donovan stole those shoes from an evidence locker."

But: "I'm only cleaning because Mrs. Hudson's nephew just died."

It would seem mean and malicious, but the truth behind the matter is that the more he likes a person, the less he'll announce about them. He'll only deduce things about me in private, and facts about Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson are conveyed only to me. And sometimes not to me at all.

If you really want to know something about a person, you just have to ask him at the right moment. Today, at this very second, it happens to be one of those moments.

"What's wrong?" I whisper into his neck (the highest I could reach). He looked as though he were about to burst.

"Nothing." He responded quickly.

"I'm a doctor, you idiot, and I know for sure something's wrong when someone looks both constipated and about to give birth."

He attempted to relax his facial muscles, and all complied except his mouth, which had flattened into a hard line.

"Better?"

"No, now you're trying too hard."

"Maybe I'm trying to lure you by making you think I'm in pain."

"For god's sake, Sherlock! You most definitely are not a serial killer!"

"Like you would've noticed."

"I can be very attentive when I want to be, thank you very much."

His mouth danced between a smile and a frown, and his eyes sparkled with the prospect of a new game, a new challenge. His still figure became alive again once more with the passion for the chase, despite the fact he'd already decrypted the crime scene.

Finally, he settled on a smirk.

"Prove it, then. See if you can figure out what I have."

"Will you stop looking constipated, then?"

He swiftly reached towards me then, making my heart splutter in my chest and electricity passing through every nerve in my body. My breath stopped halfway up my chest. His hands found their spot on my face, but instead of twirling me around facing him, he twisted behind me. His chest found my back and his lips sunk down to the same level as my ears, letting only one hoarse, deep word escape his throat:

"Deduce."

Curls rubbed against my now longer hair, and his breath travelled down my neck and shirt, sending an unforgiving shudder throughout my whole body. A silent laugh rumbled in his chest, a sound only I could hear, as no smile had crept onto his lips. I wonder how often he smiles and laughs within himself, without a soul able to perceive.

"Really John, if I'd known—"

"Sod off," I hissed at him. "What am I looking at?"

"Lestrade."

I turned my ever-so-piercing gaze to the Detective Inspector, who had an almost-smile on his face.

"He's smiling."

"Yes…?"

"Which means he's happy. At a crime scene. Which is unusual for him."

"Mm," Sherlock encouraged me to go on, sending another wave of vibrations through my body. This is a way too intimate position for public, really, the only place it belongs is—

"He has new shoes. Pretty nice ones, actually, probably expensive…?"

"Good."

"But he's a police officer, so where does he get the money? He's not corrupt, far too honest for that. So someone bought them for him?"

"Keep going."

"Who would buy him shoes?"

"Look carefully. Not just shoes."

"Um, his suit, too. That's new. Same as he wore before but better material, so whoever bought it for him liked his look before, and only wanted him to have it so he was more comfortable. Parental figure, then?"

Sherlock's smirk returned, and then he angled my head slightly upwards. "Scarf," was all he said.

"Yeah, why's he got one? It's not that cold out, and you don't have one on… so he's trying to cover his neck, then. Does he have a hickey, maybe?"

"New clothes, hickey…"

"He's got a lover, then?"

"Very good, John. But there's more."

"More? Well, I suppose his scarf is fairly thick… does he have more than one hickey?"

"Possibly. Who feels the need to dress their lover comfortably, and mark them multiple times?"

"Someone who doesn't share well?"

"Unlikely. More likely instead of multiple hickeys…"

"Oh, one big one?"

"You are so close it's painful. Who, stereotypically, have big mouths?"

"Men?"

"Exactly. Now, recount…"

"Lestrade has a male lover who has a good deal of money and bought him a new suit and shoes. This lover likes him the way he is but wants him to be more comfortable when he works, so he approves of what he does. He left a hickey but Lestrade chose to cover it up, despite the fact he's quite happy because of him."

Sherlock let go of me, instantly making me regret losing contact. But the shine was in his eyes, thrilled with unravelling the puzzle. He continued:

"Lestrade has no problem whether or not people know about the gender of the people he's involved with. When you walked into the room, he allowed his scarf to loosen, so clearly he's not sure whether or not you know his lover. But with me, he instantly tightened it, proving I know him quite well."

"You know him? Who is it, then?"

Sherlock's smirk broke into a full blown grin, and I chased him readily as he turned on his heel, heading presumably home.

"If you can figure out who it is, John, I'll buy you a new suit, expensive shoes, and a scarf."

"Ha ha ha. You're hilarious," I responded sarcastically.

OoOoO

**Whoever figures out Lestrade's lover wins A) A jumper B) A request C) My love?**

**Please don't throw tomatoes at me if you don't approve of this couple per se, they are entirely secondary to Sherlock and John and there mainly for the sake of comedy. I think they're cute and funny. **

**Shout out goes to sherlocklover who has showered me in a bunch of praise I don't deserve for all of my slash fanfics. You, my dear, are intensely appreciated.**


	10. Fascinations

"Sherlock?" I ask, surprised to find him sniffing my sheets upon entering my bedroom. Stranger things have happened, I'll admit, but this is encroaching the top of the list.

"Yes, John?"

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Well, that's rather obvious. You figured that out the second you walked into the room."

"Okay, fine—why? Why are you smelling my blankets?"

"I'm trying to deduce what cologne you wear. I've noticed it since I first met you, and it's quite pleasant."

I paused, frowning. "Ever think of just asking?"

He gave me his piercing glare, then sighed dramatically, letting his long fingers unwind from their grasp on the fabric. "If you _insist_ on being so irrational, then. John, what cologne do you wear?"

I smiled broadly. "I don't wear any."

OoOoO

I figured something was up when the next day, I found him fully clothed in the shower, staring at the shampoo bottle I used.

This time, I could predict—"Let me guess—why does John's hair look so awful?"

"No," he said, his voice made thick by the way his chin folded down against his chest, his eyes never leaving the bottle. "Why it's so soft."

I gave him a pointed look, and then rolled my eyes. "It's not new, or expensive. I bought it at the supermarket and have been using the same brand long before I joined the military. Happy?"

He scowled. "No."

OoOoO

I'd had quite enough when I found him sampling my toothpaste, squeezing the remainder of the contents of the tube across the length of his tongue.

"Sherlock!"

He tried to respond, but instead smeared the blue-white substance over the roof of his mouth and lips.

"For God's sake, you lunatic! I don't have some fantastic beauty secret that I've shielded from the rest of the world! I shower once a day, with normal shampoo, brush my teeth twice, with not particularly extraordinary toothpaste, and I don't wear any scent besides deodorant. What is it exactly you're looking for?"

His forehead wrinkled slightly, looking attentive. "Oh." Was all he said.

"Oh?"

"Yes, just 'oh'."

"Deduce anything fantastic about me?"

"No, just that…" he trailed off, looking elsewhere.

"I swear, if you leave the room without an explanation—" I paused, feeling the air frost over from my unspoken threat. He licks the toothpaste off his lip, his gaze intently focused at the floor.

"I suppose I just really like you."

OoOoO

**:D! So I return from semi-hiatus by saying XMillieX won last chapter's contest, winning a request, John's jumper and my love, but kittengotclaws wins my love, too .**

**It was Mycroft.**

**My favourite responses, though, were: 1)Anderson.**

**2) Sherlock's dad.**

**3)Moriarty.**

**I love you guys **_**so**_** much. **


	11. Tell Me Where It Hurts

"Here?"

"No."

"Here?"

"No."

"Sherlock!" I retort, having played the following scenario out over and over again for the last five minutes.

"John, you really aren't a very patient doctor. I'm having trouble locating the source of pain, obviously, and instead of supporting me, you just jab your finger into my chest until it actually does hurt there." Apparently, he'd "broken a rib."

I glare at him, sinking into grey eyes. He doesn't get it. Really, really doesn't, because the longer I press my skin to his, in any way, shape or form, the more electricity runs through me. Bliss is poor word to use to describe attraction—at least between us—as the sensation contains so much pleasure it hurts, and then it no longer fits into the category of "good feeling".

The best thing to compare it to is pressing your hand against a working radiator. At first, it's just warm—a little bit too much so, but warm. Then hot. And the second before your hand burns, the heat is so intense that it feels cold.

Touching Sherlock is that second.

I know that any emotion, any physical contact is wasted on sociopaths. That on some level they can sense some shallow feeling for you, but it's nothing more than specks of dirt in a city puddle. A grain of sand on a beach. And I know, someday, I'll get washed out to sea.

"Fine. Is this better?"

I pressed three fingers softly against his chest.

"Yes, thank you."

I move my hand slowly across the cotton, but raptly focused on the delicate skin encasing the hard muscle beneath it. _Broken ribs, John, broken ribs. _

"Anything here?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, reclining his head back in an expression of deep thought, only with his forehead relaxed. Pale lips pursed slightly, drinking in the flickering light of the kitchen.

"Hmm," was his response, before placing a long, calloused hand on top of mine. Soft. It was soft and dry, delicate lines and scars etched into the skin like scratches in sidewalks. It stayed there for a moment, before guiding my hand upwards towards the buttons on his shirt. Inwardly, I gulped, as I felt my rough, short fingers slip under his shirt and come into contact with ethereal skin that looked as though it had never bathed in warm light.

He's cold from the weather he just emerged from into the flat, but I feel him heat up under my fingers, his heart beat stirring in his chest like a reawakened beast.

His wide eyes meet mine, and I lean into his seated position on the table, slightly shorter than me from his angle. He tips his head up, blinking with eyelashes designed to block out specks from his fog like eyes. My heart accelerates within my chest, like a caged tiger clawing at my ribs. It hurts, it's good, it hurts, but oh, it's so good…

"You look almost innocent, from that angle."

He smirks with broad and wide lips I know I want to bury myself into, like a child thoughtlessly jumping into a pile of leaves.

"I'm not innocent from any angle."

I chuckle under my breath. "I know."

"And yet you spoil me with innocent emotions."

"Oh? Like what?"

"Love."

Shocked, I instantly withdraw my hand. I try to open my mouth, let some words form, but all that fills it is silence.

He glares slightly, blaming me for the sudden absence of contact. "Oh, don't pretend you thought I was ignorant. At first, you would do all you could to brush up against me—reaching for the milk, falling "asleep" on my arm in every other cab ride, grazing hands the second we were alone, borrowing my hairbrush—"

"Okay, I get it!"

"But then, you stopped. Abruptly. As if you realised what you were doing and what it made you feel. It scared you. _I scared you. _But please don't be scared. Please. Because I know that I'm not Sarah, or a woman, and hell, probably not even that close to human, either. But I love you."

"You shouldn't. You're a sociopath. You said so yourself. You can't feel the same way. You just can't."

"But I do."

"No." I step further back, anger and pain eating through me like a swarm of locusts. "You don't get it Sherlock. You know you don't. You had to look up the word love in the bloody _dictionary._ You don't love me. You can't. I'm just the guy you can fall back on when you're sick of standing against the rest of the world."

"Is that what you think of me?" He stands up slowly, as though unsure of where his feet are supposed to placed so he doesn't fall over. His voice is as quiet as a short exhale, but his eyes have darkened from the fog I know to the coal that created it.

I'm shaking, now, trembling because I forgot to breathe in between the hasty cadence of my heart.

"Yes."

"They warned you. From the first time we met, they warned you. You didn't listen. My brother warned you. You didn't listen. I warned you. You _still_ didn't listen. You did what every great explorer has done long before you—you ignored the most obvious answer and searched everywhere you could look for one so abstract, so fantastic that it couldn't possibly be the truth. But it was. And you only found it because you were too stubborn to put up with a lie that was more or less half the truth. So I'll ask you, John, one more time. Do you believe any of what you just said?"

I paused. "No. Not really."

Sherlock continued. "There was only one tiny, cracked piece of my heart that was left to save, out of the thousands that once were. You could have broken it. There wasn't much left of it to break. But you took the time to glue it back together."

"I'm a doctor. It's what I do."

"But the means wasn't worth the ends. Any other doctor wouldn't bother."

"I would. I'm John."

"I know. Believe me, I know. So I give you, Doctor John Watson, the only piece of my heart I have left."

"You already have all of mine."

"Yes. And I'm selfish and possessive, so I promise you I'll never give it away or break it."

"Good. Can we kiss now?"

"I would love to, but I just realised I have an extremely acute pain in my third rib down on my right side and it has been troubling my breathing for the past three minutes."

"Son of a –"

OoOoO

**And I return from hiatus with a getting together chapter! I might write a better one later if I'm motivated, but I'll keep this one up. Cookies go to those who can guess the name of the band that wrote the song "Tell Me Where It Hurts" which inspired the entire plot of the chapter. :D My amigos D and Felt With The Heart (who likely won't read this at all) aren't allowed to guess.**


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